“True,” she allowed with a bob of her head. Her eyes landed on the small, framed print hanging on the wall directly over his workspace. Rendered in the limited medium of lines and crosshatchings, it was a masterful portrayal of a laughing young woman looking playfully over her shoulder. It was the sort of piece that would have taken hours upon hours of careful, delicate work. Every time she visited the shop, the young woman’s portrait drew her notice. And she had a pretty good idea of who the lady must be.

It was time to test her theory. Changing tactics, Bea met his skeptical gaze head-on. “Are you married, monsieur?”

His bushy brows snapped together, eyes narrowing. “I used to be.”

It was exactly as she thought. “Did you love your wife?”

An Englishman might have kicked her out of the shop right then and there. In fact, many Frenchmen would have as well, and she braced for the possibility of his anger. But one look at his softening expression, and she knew her hunch was correct.

“Ah, yes. Very much.”

“I thought that might have been the case,” she said, her tone soft and sincere. “It’s why I hope you’ll help me now.”

He crossed his arms, his stubby, callused fingers fanning out across the coarse gray wool of his chunky knit sweater. “And what is it you think old Georges can do to help the daughter of a marquis?”

Beatrice bit her lip, hoping she was making the right decision coming to him. “First, I think this is something that can help both of us. Second, well, perhaps you should take a look at this.”

She pulled out the rolled sheet of paper and handed it to him. He didn’t know it yet, but she would get him to help her. She had to—her entire plan to help the unsuspecting ladies of the ton depended on it. She watched as he untied the ribbon and unfurled the paper.

The seconds stretched on as she waited for some sort of reaction from the old man. Nothing. She curled her hands at her sides to keep from fidgeting. Her gaze flicked to the image, studying it with fresh eyes. Her idea had turned out better than she had even hoped. Apparently, anger fueled the arts as effectively as passion. It was slightly brilliant, if she did say so herself.

If Monsieur Allard agreed to help.

His head remained bent over the page, his countenance giving away nothing as the low sounds from the busy street outside filled the silence. At last, he looked up at her, his magnified eyes unusually bright behind their lenses. “Very interesting, mademoiselle. Am I to assume you have plans for this piece?”

“I hope to. Anonymously, of course. And only with your help.”

He grunted, a noncommittal sound that could have either meant she was mad, or she had his interest. She decided to go with the latter. “I’ll pay you, of course. For your time and talents, as well as your trouble.”

He sat back in his chair, studying her as if gauging her mettle. She lifted her chin, a gesture she found herself doing whenever she wished she weren’t so small. Long seconds ticked by, but still he didn’t say a word. Anxiousness tugged at her belly, and she couldn’t keep quiet another second. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, coming to his feet and turning to face her fully, “that you will either get us both in much trouble . . .” He trailed off, tilting his head as he considered her.

“Or?” she prompted.

“Or make us the talk of the town.”

She grinned, confidence that he would help her flooding her chest. “Let us hope,” she said, leaning forward with a bit of mischief, “that it will be the latter.”

Chapter Nine

“Christ Almighty, have you seen this thing?”

John strode into the breakfast room waving a small publication of some sort. Colin’s mind had been so far away at that moment, immersed in his plans for the day, that it took him a moment to realize what his cousin was holding.

A ladies’ fashion magazine.

Colin raised an eyebrow. “No, actually. Though I am riveted to hear why you have seen it.” He set down his coffee and reached for the rag, holding it between two fingers as if the vapidness contained within was somehow catching.

“You’re lucky I did. My stepsister was positively agog over the thing.” His cousin began to pace the length of the breakfast room, turning sharply at the end of each circuit. “Go on; read it.”

Colin looked down at the rather hideous fashion plate that was illustrated on most of the page. With a shrug, he read the caption. “Fashionable morning and evening dresses for November.”

Stalking back toward where Colin sat, John snatched the magazine from his hand and flipped it around. “Try again.”

Damn but the man was in a snit. Colin sighed and refocused on the page before him, turning it to catch the dim light filtering into the room from the dreary morning outside. “Dear Gently Bred Lady.” He paused, raising an eyebrow to his cousin. “Clearly meant for the two of us.”

John rolled his hand in a “keep going” gesture, and Colin returned his attention to the page. “‘It has come to my attention that there are some things for which a young debutant may not be adequately prepared. I should know—I myself have been one. I know exactly what it feels like to have the admiring eyes of a handsome gentleman bring a blush to one’s cheek and the elation of being asked to dance by a long-admired suitor. In that moment, an innocent young miss can easily be misled by a man whose intentions are not as they seem.

“‘I speak of the type of person known as a fortune hunter.’”

Colin’s gaze jerked up. “Bloody hell.”

“It gets better,” John said, resuming his pacing.

Returning to the letter, Colin forged on. “‘A fortune hunter has no care for the lady herself, only the promise of the money she is attached to. If he succeeds in marrying a hapless young lady of fortune, the lady herself is no longer of interest. His fortune secured, he’ll carelessly set aside his wife and carry on with whatever behavior landed him in need of funds in the first place. So, in hopes of rescuing the innocent from this sort of fate, I offer up my thoughts on how to recognize a fortune hunter.

“‘The simplest method for determining a man’s motives is observing whom he asks to dance. If he focuses solely on ladies of notable dowry, then he is likely to be a fortune hunter and therefore should be avoided.’” It was signed The Daring Debutant.

Well, this was just bloody great. It was hard enough feeling as though he were some sort of predator by looking to marry a woman with a decent dowry. Now he’d have to contend with newly suspicious females watching his every move.

“And the pièce de résistance,” John said, interrupting Colin’s wandering thoughts. “The blasted cartoon.”

Colin directed his attention to the engraving below the letter. He blinked suddenly, his eyes widening in disbelief. The setting was a strikingly familiar ballroom, with elegant twin pillars framing the arching doorway. He jerked his gaze to the doorway of the breakfast room, which sported a similar, if less elaborate, motif.

“I see you recognize the background.”

“Your mother’s ballroom? That’s a bloody bold move.”

“An apt description. Though I’m certain Josephine would have never brought it to me if she hadn’t recognized our own ballroom, so I suppose we should be grateful. Tell me what else you see.”

Shaking his head, Colin lifted the page for a better look. Standing to one side was a man dressed in the style popular with those of the Bond Street Beau set. He was leering at three ladies, each with progressively smaller stacks of gold spilling from satchels at their feet. The fop had his hand extended to the lady with the largest stack and the caption above his head read, “Would your dowry—I mean, would you—care to dance?”

“I see a fortune hunter sizing up three ladies based on their dowries.” He tossed the magazine on the table, more in disgust of himself than anything else. “It’s a wonder my name isn’t sprawled across the poor bastard’s face.”

John leaned over to retrieve the damnable thing and thumped the cartoon with the back of his knuckle. “Not your name, my friend. Godfrey’s.”

“What?” Colin sat up straight, snatching the thing from John’s fingers for a closer look. Surely the artist wouldn’t be so brazen. “I don’t see his name anywhere.”

“That’s because you are unfamiliar with the people of the ton. If you had spent every last social minute with these people as I have, you would see that Godfrey is as good as labeled. See that distinctive waistcoat? It was what he wore to Mother’s ball. Combine that with the overly dramatic version of his hairstyle and the spot-on expression on his face, and there is no way that’s not him.”

The page crumpled in Colin’s hands before he realized what he was doing. Carefully releasing his grip, he laid the rumpled magazine on the table before crossing his arms and facing his cousin. “Who would do such a thing? Granted, the man is an ass, but how could someone make a mockery of another in such a public forum? It’s not as though he’s a bloody political figure.”

“Not uncommon, I’m afraid. The scandal sheets regularly call out ‘Lady D’ and ‘Lord H,’ as if everyone doesn’t know exactly who they are referring to. It’s something of a game in this society.”

“Bloody hell,” Colin breathed, running a hand through his hair. “Seems as though I am taking a greater risk with my reputation than I realized.”

Not that it really mattered. If he didn’t find a wife with a hefty dowry in three months’ time, the world would learn of his father’s spectacular business failure and the family reputation would be in tatters anyway. No one wanted to be associated with the utterly bankrupt family of an eccentric painter. Colin harbored no illusions that his father was some sort of national hero. The moment they caught wind of the fact he had died in debt up to his nose, the condemnation would come.